Brandon’s Fate –

Brandon’s fate

A TALE OF DARLOT
by Pharisee.

The eager, excited crowd which thronged the long dry stage to the Darlot diggings in the first blush of the new discovery, included Dick Brandon and his mate, Jimmy Spiggot. That dreary and water-less track skirting the edge of desolate Lake Barlee presented a motley appearance as all kinds of conveyances, from the humble wheelbarrow to the evil-looking camel, trudged hopefully to the scene of operations. It seemed a long way to those far back places in the pioneer days, but the advent of the coach, the springing up of mining townships, and the gradually approaching railway have somehow made the distances short and the hardships of little account.

The long-standing mateship which existed between Brandon and Spiggot began on a Queensland mining field, where the latter, coming away from shots in the shaft of the Dingo Extended GM, fell from the chain ladder down among the hissing fuses and would have met certain death but for the promptitude of Brandon in rushing back and nipping off the seething tapes before the fire reached the detonator caps. Brandon, a reckless man whose life, when money was plentiful was a stupefying debauch, received modestly the wild cheers which greeted his appearance at the mouth of the shaft, and though the undemonstrative Spiggot gave voice to his gratitude, there existed henceforth an undying friendship between the two men which only death could sever. For this act of bravery, Brandon received a large gold disc from the Humane Society. No degree of poverty could ever tempt him to “raise the wind” on it, even though

His Many Protracted Sprees

often reduced him to destitution. After battling for many years in the north of Queensland, from the Towers to Croydon, down through the Etheridge and among the tin on the Tate, they were attracted by the fabulous accounts of Bayley’s find and the boundless riches of the Golden West. They soon were among the surging horde of cosmopolitans who flocked through Bayley Street, Coolgardie, and fought madly for their poison amidst the stifling atmosphere of De Baun’s bar. At Dunn’s they met with no success, and in many of the other discoveries which preceded Darlot, they were a portion of the large crowd of unlucky ones of whom nothing is heard. It was after dark when the camel team carrying their machine and traps filed down the beaten track at Darlot, which ran almost parallel with Horseman’s Gully. A thousand campfires lit up the darkness, giving fantastic shapes to the medley of human beings who moved restlessly to and fro, or sat discussing the absorbing incidents inseparable from the life of the gold hunter. There were the hum of voices, the sound of

laughter, and the boisterous oath

while the dull haze of the dust cloud churned up during the day still blurred the brightness of the fires. Near Reid’s Camp, a lurid fight was in progress, in which a rather small man, with a full beard and bare to the hips, emitted blood-curdling threats, and bore down with the utmost ferocity on his opponent, who, having the full glare of fire upon his face, was an easy mark for his more favored antagonist. There is always something nerve-racking in the appearance of two furious and half-naked men tearing one another about under the glare of a night fire. This was observable among the thousand or more men who looked at the contest and quivered with suppressed excitement.

Brandon and his mate were up early the next morning and busily searching for a spot to set up. Dissatisfied with the result of their investigations in Horseman’s and Scorpion Gully, they went further down the creek in the old watercourse and set to work fossicking. Hundreds of others, who fancied that something must have been found to induce Brandon and mate to go further away from the established spots, soon hemmed them in on all sides. It didn’t take much to start

a rush at Darlot

Only a report that a speck was found somewhere and the whole congregation rushed madly about, armed with pegs, ready to mark off a selection. The restless spirit of Brandon soon began to show itself. They had found nothing of consequence, except an 8oz slug which was promptly converted into liquor at McNab’s shanty. Mac supplied nearly the whole of the snake juice absorbed at Darlot, and being distant from Coolgardie where he obtained his stock-in-trade, it taxed all his ingenuity to meet the local demand regularly. He said “If I could only find someone who could manufacture rum from local ingredients, blast him if he wouldn’t take him into partnership.” No one liked the grabbing Scot who, it was generally known, had been constantly doctoring up the solitary keg of rum for months, and many a stricken dish-twister wandered through the mulga cursing him and the infernal juice he ladled out. In other days before he became fired with the gold lust, Jimmy Spiggot was a university student, and if there was one branch of science that occupied his close attention it was chemistry. Having heard McNab’s promise re partnership, he felt confident he possessed sufficient knowledge of different poisons to

Manufacture a Liquid

at least as palatable as the composition which the shantyman dealt out to a suffering community. A conference consisting of Brandon, Spiggot, and McNab discussed the matter in all its bearings, and it was decided that a partnership be effected with equal shares of profits, provided a liquor could be made which would take on with the public. It was soon noticed that Brandon worked the shaker alone and that Jimmy fossicked underneath a cement crust, where he spent most of his time. Not long afterward McNab began to receive numerous compliments concerning the improved quality of his snake-juice and did a better trade than ever.

Fist fight in a bush camp

The partnership flourished, Jimmy pounding on cement during the day and making rum at night. Brandon working away with his shaker and McNab hauling in the kudos. A policeman sent out to inquire into the drink traffic became a particular pal of McNab’s and got gloriously drunk about three times a day, finally returning to officially report that he could discover no trace of an illicit still at Darlot. All went well until an untoward incident broke up the partnership. One day, while the “two-up” school was in full swing, and frantic yells of “quid heads,” ” fiver he heads em,” could be heard all through the gully, and, while the ring keeper surreptitiously concealed a few of the greasy notes up his sleeve, Rusty Bob accused Brandon of doing him for a “couple er quid.” In the fearful uproar which ensued, Brandon was knocked down and kicked, and found on recovering from the shock that one eye was completely destroyed. Though much sympathy was extended to him, the loss maddened him, and caused his sudden departure from the diggings, in spite of the protestations of his old mate. Finding that he could not be dissuaded, Spiggott then decided to go with him, but Brandon offered such violent opposition to the proposal, and furthermore, used such insulting expressions that Jimmy recoiled indignantly and cut to the heart. Brandon must be mad to speak in such a way argued Jimmy to himself, he would make it up the next day, and they would still be on the old footing. However, when Brandon’s camp was approached the next morning it was found empty. Dick was gone. When last seen he was walking rapidly past the 16-mile water, with his head bandaged up and spoke to no one.

This was the last seen or heard of him!

He often thought of his old mate Brandon, and wished he was there to share his wealth. This was the consuming wish of his life. Every passing face was keenly scanned by him, every inquiry, secretly and by advertisement, was made in the endeavor to trace his lost friend, but no effort could discover the slightest clue. He then concluded, that like many another wanderer in this parched-up desert, Brandon’s bones lay bleaching far from the ken of man, the sport of vagrant winds, a mocking answer to the presumption of vaunting ambition. His heart throbbed to think of it. Jimmy Spiggot was the pet of Perth society, and goldfields society as well, or rather the hybrid collection of Flossies and rejuvenated barmaids who form a considerable segment of the goldfields social circle.

During one of his visits to the metropolis, he, in company with some, big-bellied friends drove to Fremantle, and after being shown the doubtful beauties of that dejected watering-place was, at last, a lone and curious visitor to the lunatic asylum. There he saw the horrors of the insane, heard the idiotic laugh and the wild shriek of the hopeless maniac. “Now,” said the obsequious official showing him around, “you will see the very worst we have. Got to keep him behind bars for safety. He has been here about four years. His madness never decreases. Last week he tore off one of the keeper’s ears. There he is.” James Spiggot stepped forward and beheld a gaunt, wild-looking, one-eyed man, foaming with fury, and tearing at the bars. Spiggot gave one look of horror and dismay and rushed madly from the place. The man was his old mate, Brandon.